


Queen of Darkness

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Red Priests and Priestesses of R'hllor | The Lord of Light (A Song of Ice and Fire), Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: Sandor Clegane is dispatched from Casterly Rock to a mysterious northern fortress, where he meets an even more mysterious woman.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, ya'll! I mentioned I'd be posting some WIPs and I'll make the same warning: frequency of updates may vary. I remain committed to never abandoning a story, unless I drop dead or lose all my fingers in a horrible accident, but there could be dry spells with some of these fics as I focus on others, depending on my muse.
> 
> For this fic, I'm not using a lot of tags for now as I want to preserve some element of mystery. This is highly canon-divergent when it comes to the Stark family, so try to just read it without bringing a lot of assumptions to the table.

Lord Tywin summoned his most obedient dog.

Sandor expected to be dispatched somewhere – anywhere some tenant farmer wasn’t paying his dues, or some lordling was whispering words of dissent. Perhaps some band of outlaws was making life difficult for the smallfolk. Perhaps some merchant was peddling something he shouldn’t be peddling.

He was wrong.

Tywin didn’t mince words. Neither did Sandor. It was but one of the ways there was mutual respect between the men, even if neither was the type to show it.

“Clegane. I’ve received a request from an old friend. She has need for a new guard.”

Sandor furrowed his brow. Lord Tywin didn’t lend Sandor out – or any of his retainers, for that matter.

“There’s plenty of men that can fulfill such a purpose, my lord.”

“Her need is a particular one. Only the fiercest can serve her.”

Sandor didn’t question even though the request didn’t make much sense, unless this woman was in need of a seasoned killer and not just a mere guard. “For how long?” he asked instead.

A hesitant sound came from Lord Tywin’s throat, “If you satisfy her requirements, indefinitely.”

“Where?”

Tywin tossed him a rolled scroll. It was unsealed. Sandor glanced at his lord only a moment before scanning the parchment, “The North? Far north, if I’m reading this right.”

“Yes.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes, “You wish to be rid of me. Have I failed you?”

“No. And no. But a Lannister always pays his debts.”


	2. Wolf and dog aren’t so different

No banners waved about the ancient keep. From what Sandor could see it was a small estate, but high walls surrounded it. It was an odd place to find such a fortress, nestled in the dense Wolfswood, at least a half day’s ride from any other castle Sandor knew of – Deepwood Motte would be the closest if Sandor had his bearings straight.

A single guard opened the gate upon his approach. No words were exchanged. Sandor grunted when the same man moved to take Stranger’s reins, “He doesn’t let anyone but me handle him. Lead me to your stables.”

The man nodded and did as told. The stables were small, only a few stalls and a few horses. Calm beasts, all.

Sandor couldn’t shake the feeling that had lived in his heart for the last few hours of his travels It was foreboding, like a warning. A superstitious man would think some woodlands witch had put a curse on her territory to ward off intruders. Sandor wasn’t superstitious, so he attributed it to his instincts, which were keen enough to see him to the ripe old age of nine and twenty. It wasn’t old for a merchant or lady, he supposed, but for someone who’d been fighting since before a single hair grew on his chest, he felt almost ancient.

It had been late when he arrived, well after midnight, so he wasn’t expecting to meet his new master.

He was wrong.

He was led to a great room and told to sit. Refreshments were laid out, but he didn’t partake. Acid was churning in his stomach. He felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. On instinct alone he should have turned back the moment the gate opened, but he was an obedient dog.

He studied the room around him. Fire crackled in a large hearth. A few divans and several chairs were arranged in a haphazard fashion. Small tables interspersed them. The windows were covered in thick drapes that looked as old as the keep. They were crimson and grey, and Sandor didn’t think any Northern houses claimed such colors, but he couldn’t be sure.

His eyes were drawn to two large portraits above and on either side of the hearth. The one closest to him was of a man who looked something like how Sandor would have looked if half his face weren’t a twisted mess of fire-licked skin. Dark heavy brow, strong nose and jaw, thick dark beard, limp dark hair hanging to the shoulder, and dark, piercing eyes, perhaps grey or brown or black. His eyes were thoughtful, contemplative, but also pained.

The second portrait was of a fair woman with auburn hair down to her waist, which is where the portrait ended. Her cheekbones could cut glass. Her lips were full but not over large. Her bosom was ample for her slender frame. Her eyes were fair – blue or green, Sandor couldn’t tell from this distance, but they were distinctly sad. Forlorn, even.

“Lady Catelyn Tully Stark, daughter of Hoster Tully, once Lord Paramount of the Trident,” a voice entered his ears like a whisper on a breeze.

Sandor turned, hand on his sword hilt, and saw a woman standing only a few paces behind him. She wasn’t looking at him, only at the portrait, with a goblet held to her chest. She nodded her chin toward the other portrait, “Lord Eddard Stark, son of Rickard Stark. Once King in the North.”

The names were vaguely familiar from some distant maester’s lesson. If Sandor was correct, they were some of the last Starks – a pure bloodline that could be traced back to the First Men.

“Lord Eddard was the last King of Winter,” Sandor half asked, half stated.

The woman nodded, “His son and heir, Robb, would have worn the same title, but he perished before his father.”

Sandor tried to corral the stories she was referring to. “The Long Night,” he guessed.

“The _Last_ Night,” she corrected, then snapped her eyes from the painting to him, not for a moment flinching at the sight of his scars. She gestured to the nearest chair, “Your journey was long. Please sit.”

He nodded his thanks and sat. The woman did not. She stared into the hearth, in a sort of trance. Sandor took the opportunity to appraise her. There was something ethereal about her, and it wasn’t simply attributable to the dress she wore, if it could be called that. It was more like a silk robe. White as snow with flowing sleeves, a deep V-shaped neckline, belted at the waist with a white silk sash. Unlike most ladies’ dresses, there weren’t layers upon layers of puffed-out skirts. A single layer of silk hung straight, close to her form but not tight, like a gentle stream of water spilling over a rock.

Without angling his head his eyes trailed down to find bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem, which dusted the floor.

He could only assume she’d been roused from her slumber upon his arrival. Instead of dressing to receive a guest, she met him in her sleeping gown. She was an odd creature, and his guts continued to churn.

Looking upon her face was a challenge. Sandor never had difficulty eying a person from head to toe but to look at her face felt… sacrilegious. Which was odd, since he kept no gods.

After some minutes she glided to the sideboard. Her steps were silent, toe-heel, toe-heel, like a water dancer circling his opponent.

She turned and leaned against the heavy oaken furniture and sipped what he could only assume was a deep burgundy wine by the way it stained her lips. Though his stomach still turned, his tongue thirsted for wine. A sour red was his weakness. He hadn’t expected for them to have it so far north.

“Have you been offered refreshments?” she spoke over the rim of her cup.

He nodded, “Aye, but I’ll have some of what you’re having, if you can spare it.”

The left corner of her mouth crinkled. She turned again and poured from a copper pitcher into an odd wooden goblet, giving Sandor ample opportunity to inspect the twin globes being caressed by silk.

Sandor crossed his right ankle over his left knee to hide the arousal building despite the fact that he was very much afraid. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt fear, but in that moment, he felt every bit like a rabbit catching a good long whiff of a fox.

She walked to him on silent feet and extended the goblet. He took it with a nod.

“Lord Lannister is one of the few men I respect. No harm will come to you here.”

Sandor didn’t respond. He wanted to believe her, and he detected no lie, but nothing about this place or this mistress was inviting.

_Other than her teats and arse._

She smiled at him, just enough to reveal a sliver of wine-stained teeth, “He describes you as fiercely loyal. Obedient. Strong. Capable. A man who can kill without remorse, but who does not kill for sport. He says you’re smart but don’t show it. He says you have sharp instincts. The nose of a hound. He says you see all but show your enemies nothing. He says you hear all but speak very little. Tell me, do you agree with your lord’s appraisal?”

Sandor swirled the wine in his cup and took a sip, thinking before answering, “Mostly. Not sure how smart I am, but compared to most fools I suppose I might be. I’m loyal and obedient, aye, but I’m lucky to have a master worthy of both.”

“So you’d be disloyal, to another?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Her smile turned into a grin, “Tell me why he is worthy.”

Sandor exhaled loudly, “He’s cold but not cruel. People fear him, but they need not so long as they are loyal. He kills when it’s necessary, and he spares when he can. He’s a fearsome man but he isn’t a monster. I would know, I’ve seen plenty of ‘em.”

Her smile didn’t fade, “Like the one who burned you.”

Sandor felt heat rush to his face, “Was a bedding fire.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“You claim to know my life better than I do?” he growled.

“I know how long it takes for such damage to be caused. Unless you were tied to your bed, I doubt a bedding fire could have destroyed so thoroughly.”

Sandor glared at her, but she was annoyingly unaffected.

“My brother,” he spat.

She nodded, and he knew she meant for him to go on.

He sighed, “When I was six, he held my face into a brazier. Held me down for I don’t know how long until my father pulled him off.”

She moved closer to him. It put Sandor on edge. She raised her hand while keeping it limp, and Sandor was confused until he realized she meant to touch his scars. He grasped her wrist, cool silk in his hot hand.

She didn’t try to lose his grip, not that she’d be able to. Instead she peered down at him, “Few would survive such horror. Men have died from less.”

“S’pose I’m tough to kill,” Sandor growled.

She arched an eyebrow, thin and dark. For the first time Sandor allowed himself to study her face. Her skin was as pale as snow, only a shade darker than her odd dress. Her eyes were crystal blue. Her hair auburn, with streaks of copper and bronze glimmering in the firelight. She had the bone structure of someone highborn. Straight, delicate nose. High cheekbones. Sharp jaw. Chin strong but not protruding. She was… perfection. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, but it was hard to tell. By facial features alone she might be six and ten, but there was a wisdom and confidence in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him, as all children and most adults were. She didn’t wither under his gaze; she met it and made _him_ want to wither.

He released her wrist. She walked the few paces to the chair opposite him, giving him yet another glorious view. Her footsteps were once again completely noiseless, like a little bird hopping across fresh snow.

She sat for the first time since he’d arrived and crossed right leg over left. A long slit that Sandor hadn’t noticed revealed her entire leg from ankle to hip. It was as improper as could be, and Sandor pulled his ankle higher up his leg to hide what was quickly becoming a large bulge.

_Bitch knows what she’s doing._

“I assume his abuse of you didn’t start and end with the burning.”

He’d forgotten entirely about their topic of conversation but fell back into it easily enough. Gregor was never far from his thoughts, “You’ve the right of it.”

“Did he take liberties with you?”

“What?”

She arched a brow.

“You asking if my brother buggered me?” Sandor snorted, “No. He did everything short of that. Beat me until I pissed blood. Strangled me until I blacked out. Smacked me on the head so hard my vision would be blurry for days. But Gregor only raped women.”

She nodded slowly, “And you?”

“What about me?”

“How many women have you raped?”

He crossed his arms, aware that he now looked completely defensive but unable to stop himself, “None,” he spat.

“Because of the repercussions?”

“Because I’m not a fucking monster like my brother. I pay for cunt, as a man should.”

She nodded again, “Do you want to fuck me?”

“What?!”

She repeated the question, only slower, as if he’d simply misheard her.

He considered lying. He didn’t want this bitch to know she had _any_ power over him. But she had to own a looking glass. Her dress with that bloody slit. Even the way she sat – she was molten sex, and she knew it. She didn’t sit prim and proper, straight backed. She slunk into the chair, as if she’d been poured out of a magic pitcher, white cream with a splash of berry juice.

It occurred to him that if he freed his cock right now and guided himself to her slit, she’d not do anything to stop him. It was an odd feeling. Women wanted the Hound’s coin, not the Hound. Perhaps some wanted the Hound’s cock, but this woman wanted all of him. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. She would eat him alive. Devour him. She’d suck the air right out of his lungs with her mouth while milking the seed out of his cock with her cunt. He imagined she’d fuck like the Essosi concubines he’d heard of, taking everything the man had to give before letting him find his own release. Nothing like Westerosi whores whose moans and squeals were always a mummery. Occasionally one would be wound tightly enough to peak, but they never asked for it, never demanded it.

This mysterious woman would demand it, _command_ it, oh yes. She might tie a man down, sit on his face and let him get her off two or three times before she’d get herself off on his cock another time or two. Then she’d make him lick his own spend off her folds, as if it were some type of privilege.

She was waiting patiently for his answer. Speaking the words would give her power he wasn’t ready to yield. He’d answer her challenge a different way. _She wants to wear a near-transparent dress and put her entire milky thigh on display? Well, two can play that game._

He uncrossed his leg, planting both feet on the ground more than hip-width apart. He leaned back, letting her take a good long look at the good long bulge.

He expected a blush, an aversion of her eyes, or even a gasp.

He was wrong.

She drank in the sight of him for agonizing moments before meeting his eyes, “How would you take me?”

“What?!”

_Damn. She’s winning this game._

“How would you pleasure me?” she repeated calmly.

“Never had to care about a whore’s pleasure, else they should be paying me.” He was stalling and hoped she didn’t know it. Her question had made his heart thrum against his breastbone. His cheeks felt hot, and it wasn’t due to the wine, which he took a sip of now just to appear unfazed. He doubt it worked.

“So you don’t know how to please a woman?”

“Didn’t say that,” he grunted. He needed to reclaim some of the power, so he let the dog loose. “S’pose I’d start with those pretty little teats that have been winking at me since you came in the room. Lick, suck, bite… rub my scruff against them until they’re nearly raw. Then I’d give your cunt the same treatment. Bet you’d taste sweet, too. Like honeysuckle or Arbor Gold. I wouldn’t even complain about a nice roast chicken. Get you good and wet, tight as a bow string, but I wouldn’t let you peak unless you begged for it, ‘cause you strike me as someone who could benefit from a bit of humility. Since I know you’re not like to beg, I’d flip you over and take you like the beasts do. You fancy yourself a she-wolf, I wager. And Gods know I’m a dog. I’d lock in and fuck you raw. Make you fight me right up until you peak on my thick cock, and wouldn’t that bring you down from your high horse? Getting off by rutting with an ugly old dog instead of some handsome wolf.”

He was proud of himself until he saw he’d accomplished nothing. He didn’t scandalize her. She stared at him, lips parted, not bothering to hide her arousal. He’d given her what she wanted, passed some sort of test. He supposed that meant he’d won, but she’d won too.

She gave him an amused half-smile, “How do you know you’re not a wolf? Wolf and dog aren’t so different.”

Sandor shrugged, “S’pose I might be. Got no wolves in the Westerlands. No wolves south of the Neck at all. Not many _north_ of the Neck, either, from what I’ve heard.”

“Sansa…” a voice called from the doorway.

Sandor stood and spun. Leaning against the wall was a young man, well-built and solemn looking.

_Has he been here the whole time?!_

“I know Edrick. Thank you.”

The man tipped his head but didn’t leave.

Sandor turned back to the woman but kept his ears open lest her guard think to drive a sword through his back.

She stood up then, as gracefully as she’d slid into the chair, “I must retire. Edrick will show you to your chambers. Take as long as you need to rest and recuperate from your journey. A meal will be brought to you shortly, and we will dine together tomorrow evening, if you are feeling up for it.”

Sandor nodded then watched the woman float out of the room, dragging a hand lightly along _Edrick’s_ chest as she passed him.

Edrick held a hand out, gesturing to the corridor, “This way, Ser.”

“Not a ser,” Sandor grumbled, but followed the man, nonetheless, down a hall and up a flight of stairs.

No words were exchanged until the man pushed open a door, revealing a room fit for a lord, not a guard. Sandor wouldn’t complain.

“Your possessions have already been brought up, as you see,” the man pointed at a large trunk under a window, atop of which sat Sandor’s two saddlebags. Beside it were the pieces of armor Sandor chose to carry rather than wear.

“A boy, Donald, will be along shortly with your meal. He will see to your needs for the duration of your stay. If you care for a bath, let him know.”

Sandor grunted an ambiguous response.

“You are free to come and go as you please. The great room, the kitchens, the stables, the training yard. But under no circumstances are you to explore the higher floors of the family keep.”

“You mean higher than this floor?”

“Yes.” The man didn’t make the mistake of calling him ‘ser’ again. He had half a brain.

“Right. Think I’ve got it.”

Edrick nodded, “Donald’s room is two doors down on the right, opposite side of the hall. Should you need anything, day or night, ask him. If necessary, he’ll summon me or our lady.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Who?”

“Everyone. I see no maids, no stewards, no pages. Only one guard.”

Edrick nodded, “Tomorrow if you’re up and about before dinner, I’ll bring you around and make introductions.”

“Don’t need _introductions_. Just wondering where they are.”

Edrick’s eyes flicked to the window, “ _Tomorrow_. For now, eat. Rest.”

The man turned on his heels and left, back toward the stairwell.

Sandor was finally feeling hungry, so he left his door slightly ajar so the servant boy would let himself in. Exhaling deeply, he plopped heavily into one of the two chairs beneath the large window. Outside, the sky was turning from black to gray.


	3. I won't dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Sandor's strange job interview.

Apparently, “everyone” consisted of nine people, including Edrick and the lady of the keep, who was apparently named Sansa.

Donald, who liked to be called Donny, was a lad of ten, daughter of the cook. The cook’s name was Shaleen. She was a buxom girl with crooked teeth and a scar that traveled from her upper lip to her brow on the right side of her face. She hardly looked old enough to be Donny’s mother – six and twenty if Sandor had to guess.

The maester, who doubled as a steward, was an old but spry man, also named Donald – Donald Tully. He seemed to fulfill many roles, helping with the gardens, for instance.

The guard Sandor had met at the gatehouse was named Robbett Cassel. He and Edrick appeared to be the only able-bodied men in the whole place.

There was a dark-haired girl barely old enough to have her moonblood. Everyone called her Evie. Sandor paid her little mind but seemed to recall Edrick introducing her as Evelyn Snow. She, like Donny, seemed to have no official role other than helping wherever she was needed. She assisted Shaleen in the kitchens, washed the clothes of the household members, delivered food, and carried messages.

The only other inhabitants that Sandor was introduced to were a handsome young couple also named Cassel. The man’s name was Martyn and his wife was Jeyne. Apparently, Martyn and Robbett were brothers. Martyn also did a bit of everything – he hunted, tended the gardens and livestock, and made repairs around the castle. Jeyne was a seamstress and washerwoman who also helped her husband with the gardens and animals. She was a pretty thing, but not afraid to get her hands dirty. Sandor could respect that.

It was a rather ragtag household, though there was something to be admired about people who toiled from sunrise to sunset. At Casterly Rock, every person had one job and one job only. Few of those jobs required full-time activity. Guards stood for hours and days on end, going months or often years without needing to draw steel other than in training. Robbett would leave the gatehouse to help his goodsister haul buckets across the courtyard. Donny would feed and water the horses, then help Evie carry a basket of dirty linens to the wash basin. Even the old maester would roll up his sleeves, hold up a board that Martyn was hammering.

…

“Tell me, what does a man like Sandor Clegane seek?”

It was an hour past dusk. Sandor was dining privately with the lady of the keep and Edrick, who seemed to be her sworn shield. Sandor could guess that he had spent the day guarding her chambers except for the hour he spent showing Sandor around the castle grounds. The man spoke very little.

Sandor only knew the woman’s name was Sansa because he’d heard Edrick call her that last night. She’d yet to introduce herself or hint at what she might want from Sandor – why she’d requested him from Lord Tywin.

“Same as any other man, I suppose,” he eventually answered.

“And what might that be?”

Sandor eyed her across the large table. A full spread was set out for he and Edrick – roast game hens glazed in honey. Mashed turnips. Hearty bread. Charred onions. Sansa didn’t partake, only sipping from her goblet of red wine.

He shrugged, “Fair coin for fair work. Enough to keep my wineskin full.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. Not all men want castles and lordships, armies and power.”

“But let’s say you had armies and power. Let’s say you were as powerful as Lord Lannister or Lord Bolton. What would you do with that power?”

Sandor shrugged again, “Defend my lands, I suppose.”

“You wouldn’t try to conquer other lands? Expand your territory, add to your wealth?”

“Don’t see the point. More land means more to look after. And what could more gold get me? I doubt Lord Lannister could spend his gold in fifty lifetimes.”

“Would you take a wife? Have children?”

“Never cared for a wife. And don’t think anyone wants my pups.”

“They would if you were wealthy and powerful.”

“S’pose so.”

“So… would you?”

“Aye, might be I would. Might be I wouldn’t. You ask me to speculate on my desires if I were someone else entirely. Might as well ask me what I’d think about if I were a toad.”

Edrick snorted in amusement. Sansa’s pretty lips curved into a half smile.

“So what gives you satisfaction, other than wine?”

“Killing. Fighting.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m good at it. Everyone enjoys doing what they’re good at.”

“Some more than others. I’ve known men who were quite effective at killing, but it gave them no joy.”

“You didn’t ask what gives me _joy_ ; you asked what gives me satisfaction.”

She smiled again, “So it satisfies you because you’re good at it? That’s all?”

“Never stopped to think about it.”

“Does it make you feel powerful?”

“I _am_ powerful. Don’t need to kill to be reminded of it. I’m reminded every time maids and servants scurry to get out of my way.”

“What about your brother?”

Sandor stilled, “What about him?”

“If you could kill him, would you?”

Sandor snorted, “I _could_ kill him. At least, I’ve got a good chance.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“Become a kinslayer? Earn myself a one-way trip to the executioner’s block?”

“So you fear death?”

Sandor huffed. This bitch wouldn’t be happy until she knew every one of his innermost thoughts. He had half a mind to leave. He didn’t think she would stop him from turning back to the Westerlands.

But he didn’t. _Fucking obedient dog._

“I don’t _fear_ death; that doesn’t mean I invite it.”

Edrick snorted again. Sansa ignored it, “So you don’t wish to be a kinslayer because it’s the utmost sin in the eyes of the New Gods?”

“Fuck the Gods, old and new. I don’t deserve to be labeled a kinslayer because Gregor’s no _kin_ of mine. Tie my legacy to his? Fuck that,” Sandor spit on the floor beside his chair.

She leaned forward and the silk dress fell away from her body just enough for him to see the tops of her breasts. Today she was wearing a similar dress as the one she met him in last night, only this one was a deep crimson.

“If you could kill him and never be found out – never be tried for his murder, never be called kinslayer, would you?”

“Yes,” Sandor didn’t hesitate.

“And if you could do that, but your master ordered you not to – would you do it anyway?”

Sandor let out a mirthless chuckle, “You want to know that if you make me your guard, I’ll stay by your side, not leave on an _errand_ to kill my brother. That it?”

“Partly, yes.”

“And what’s the other part?”

“I like to think of myself as a generous mistress. My people, few as they may be, want for nothing.”

“Ah, so you’d _reward_ me by letting me kill my brother, helping me get away with it? How might you do that, hm? Wear that undergarment you call a dress in front of Lord Lannister? Bat your eyelashes and ask him to deliver my brother on a silver platter so I can butcher him?”

She wasn’t taken aback as he’d hoped she’d be. She merely shrugged, “Sooner or later Lord Lannister will owe me another debt.”

His chest swelled at the idea that she’d use such a priceless gift on him. But he didn’t let it show. Instead he focused on something else her words reminded him of, “You already called in a debt to get me here, yet I don’t know what you want of me.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, “Lord Tywin should have told you. I’m in need of a guard.”

Sandor jutted his chin toward Edrick, “You’ve got one. And if one’s not enough, then I doubt two will be, either. You could have asked him to send twenty guards instead of one of me.”

Sansa frowned, “I have specific needs that only one man can fulfill at a time.”

It was tempting to make a raunchy jape, but he didn’t, “So Edrick is leaving?”

Sansa nodded, “In a sense.”

The man in question betrayed none of his thoughts, only continued to eat his meal in silence.

“Fine, I’ll be your guard. Not for you, but because Lord Tywin commanded it of me. I hereby transfer my loyalty and my sword from him to you. That what you want to hear?”

“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid it isn’t so simple.”

Sandor sighed, “Then stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what you need of me.”

“We cannot tell you. We can only show you. But understand that once we show you, there is no going back. You either serve me, or you die.”

“You want me to commit to a job without knowing what it is? I thought Lord Tywin told you I’m no fool.”

“Then tell me what you are _unwilling_ to do. If it is any of the things I would require of you, I will let you know, and you can return to Casterly Rock.”

Sandor crossed his arms. In truth, there wasn’t much he was unwilling to do, but he didn’t like the idea of entering into a contract blind, with his life hanging on the line.

“I’ll kill for you, but not innocents. If someone means you or your people harm, I’ll cut him down. I don’t know what lands you rule beyond this keep, but if someone is defying you, you give the word and I’ll kill him. Or her. But don’t ask me to kill their babe or rape innocent daughter.”

Sansa nodded, “That’s all fair. I wouldn’t ask you to hurt innocents, even in times of war. What else?”

That was pretty much where he drew the line, morals-wise. So he tried to think of things he simply didn’t enjoy, “I won’t dance.”

Sansa grinned, “I think I can accept that.”

“And I won’t speak fancy words to any fancy lords or ladies who visit you. I can bite my tongue well enough, but when I do speak, I’m going to speak my mind and not spout off a bunch of empty courtesies like I’m some type of mockingbird.”

“Also fair. I think you’ll find we’re less focused on propriety and decorum than the southern lords and ladies you’ve encountered.”

“No shit,” Sandor let his eyes drift down to her chest, the two peaks poking through thin silk.

She nodded and sipped her wine, contemplating him all the while. He returned to his meal when he realized he’d nearly forgot the most important restriction of all, “And no fire. I’ll face an arrow, sword, axe… anything that might be destined for you, but don’t ask me to face fire. If you find yourself trapped in a burning keep, don’t expect me to save you. And if you’re one of those crazy fuckers that worships the _lord of light_ , keep your fire magic to yourself.”

She smiled again, “I agree to your terms wholeheartedly. I must ask though, is fire the only pain you fear?”

He teetered his hand, “I’d rather not be skinned alive. Rather not have my bollocks cropped off, but aye, fire’s the main one.”

Edrick snorted again. Amused snorts and chewing noises were his only contributions to the conversation, but Sansa looked to him now, “What do you think, my love?”

Sandor furrowed his brow. Sansa seemed close with the man, comfortable around him, but until that moment he didn’t detect any romantic attachments between them. Moreover, Sandor was meant to replace him because he was leaving. Why would he leave the woman he loved, assuming her affection was reciprocated by him?

Edrick took a deep breath, “I think he’s the one.”

Sansa smiled and took his hand, “I think so, too.” She rose abruptly, “Finish your meal, Sandor, then Edrick will show you the ways.”

As always, she walked away like a spirit fading into the night.


	4. Last chance

They wore no armor and rode no mounts as the two men journeyed beyond the northern gate. In only a few minutes they were surrounded by dense woods. Pines, spruces, oaks, maples and numerous trees this southern lad couldn’t have named. He only knew the ones he did from journeys to the Riverlands and Vale. They had no such trees in the Westerlands.

“Why are you leaving?” Sandor asked without delay.

“You will understand soon.”

Sandor rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut.

For a good twenty minutes the only sound was the crunching of leaves and cracking of twigs beneath his feet. Sandor liked to think he was light-footed for his size, but Edrick moved among the woods almost as noiselessly as Sansa moved around the castle.

Eventually they got to a small clearing and came to a stop. Edrick looked directly into Sandor’s eyes, “After I show you the way, there is no turning back.”

It was another opportunity to back out while keeping his head, and it deserved consideration, yet Sandor didn’t think over-much. There was a saying he’d heard Lord Tywin use when retainers or lesser lords stuck their noses where they didn’t belong: _curiosity killed the cat._ Sandor had a good feeling that curiosity was about to kill the dog, but death seemed a small price to pay to satisfy his mounting curiosity.

He nodded and Edrick nodded back. Then the man began stripping off his clothing.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

Sandor felt panicked. He’d told Sansa he didn’t want to dance or make polite conversation; it hadn’t occurred to him to tell her that he also wasn’t willing to fuck another man.

The man stopped undressing when he stood only in his smallclothes, “Last chance.”

“I ain’t buggering you and you ain’t buggering me!” Sandor growled loud enough that some leaves rustled nearby as birds left their nests.

Edrick just laughed, “No buggering. But I repeat: last chance…”

Sandor groaned, “Oh fucking hells, yes. _Last chance_. Understood. Get on with it.”

Edrick’s face became solemn, “No matter what, do _not_ draw your sword. No harm will come to you here, you have my word, but you mustn’t attack.”

“Attack _who?!”_

“You’ll know,” Edrick mumbled. He took a deep breath, dropped his drawers, and before Sandor had a chance to turn away from the unwelcome sight the man leapt into the air, landing several paces away. Only it wasn’t Edrick that landed. It was… something else…

…

For the first time in his life, upon facing likely imminent death, the Hound didn’t laugh. He didn’t snarl. He didn’t raise his sword. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, praying to all seven of the fucking gods that his eyes would never open again.

After several seconds – or perhaps minutes – he realized there was not a sound to be heard. The entire forest was quiet. The _thing_ he saw must not have been there. It was a trick of the moonlight shimmering through the tree canopy. At worst, perhaps shadows and moonbeams fell on some elk or moose and distorted its appearance.

_Yes, that must be it! Because what I thought I saw can’t possibly exist…_

He opened one eye, immediately jumping back until his spine hit the trunk of a tree behind him. Now he was paralyzed, one eye open, one eye shut, as if his brain couldn’t decide whether it was better to see this fearsome creature or pretend it wasn’t there.

Another small eternity passed before Sandor opened his other eye, only encouraged by the fact that the beast wasn’t moving. Nor did it give any hint of a threat. It didn’t growl, snarl, or hiss. It didn’t assume an aggressive stance, though truthfully Sandor didn’t know what an aggressive stance would look like in such a creature. On all fours, like a cat ready to pounce? Standing fully upright on its hind legs, like a mother bear scaring wild dogs away from her den?

The only movement in the thing was its chest – expanding with each inhalation, contracting with each exhalation.

Sandor let his eyes examine the thing from top to bottom. Its head closely resembled that of a wolf’s, but it was twice the length and girth of any wolf’s head Sandor could imagine – if he estimated a wolf to be about the size of a large dog. Its eyes were large and yellow, glowing eerily in the night like a pair of lanterns might look from a distance.

The base of its skull didn’t taper into a thinner neck. Oh no, its neck was thicker than Sandor’s thigh and only got wider where it met shoulder. This is where the beast looked less like a wolf and more like a man. A broad, muscled chest was covered in hair but thinner than the hair on its head and neck. The ridges of muscle and bone were visible through the pelt – pectoral muscles, abdominal muscles, ribs…

It's front arms (or legs?) were also hair-covered, and much longer and thicker than any wolf’s would ever be. The creature was standing on its hind legs, though somewhat hunched, letting its arms hang loose at its sides. The forearm, if it could be called that, was longer than the bicep. In place of human hands or the squat paw of a wolf there were long hands with even longer fingers curled up toward the palm. Shadow was obstructing this part, but Sandor could imagine razor-sharp claws tipped each finger.

Down its abdomen the hair became sparser until it reached the genitalia – also shrouded by shadow, for which Sandor was grateful. Webbed skin on either side of the groin connected to thick thighs, as hairy as the neck and about as thick. The lower leg had two bends, the first something like a human knee, the second something like a dog’s hind ankle. Below the ankles, the legs were narrower but connected to meaty paws. Between the beast’s legs Sandor could see a tail that nearly reached the ground.

Sandor didn’t know how long it took to appraise every detail. Perhaps an hour. Only when he was finished this task did he appreciate the creature in full. It stood a half head taller than him even though its back appeared slightly hunched. Its hair, or fur, was a dark reddish brown. Its chest was easily wider than Sandor’s by several inches around. With its mouth hung open, Sandor could see rows of teeth, the canines likely as long as Sandor’s thumb.

He now felt confident that the beast meant him no harm. Surely it could have killed him easily anytime in the moments Sandor was studying it. Only now that his shock was partially abated did Sandor remember that the beast had appeared out of Edrick’s own form. He didn’t know how it was possible, but this thing _was_ Edrick.

“Can you understand me?” Sandor asked, his voice sounding weaker than he’d ever heard it.

It, or he, jerked its head up once, like a dog sniffing the air or a human nodding.

“Can you speak?”

It jerked its head to the left like a horse fighting against the reins.

Sandor nodded, “Can you become Edrick again?”

It didn’t respond, but before Sandor’s very eyes the thing melted back into Edrick’s naked form. The man shivered like one does after stepping from a warm bath into a cold room.

Perhaps only to release some energy, Sandor bent down to pick up the man’s clothes and toss them to him. He turned away, lost in a maze of thoughts, while the man redressed.

“That’s enough for tonight,” Edrick said after they began walking back toward the castle, “Process what you saw, I’ll answer all of your questions tomorrow.”

Sandor nodded, relieved to not have to distill his jumbled thoughts into understandable sentences at this moment.

It wasn’t until they were just outside the gate that Edrick stopped him with a hand to his shoulder, “Do you want to leave now?”

Once again, he recognized the sane answer would be ‘yes’. And once again he answered honestly instead, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone surprised or was it obvious?
> 
> It may seem soon for Sansa and Edrick to trust Sandor with such a secret, but you will eventually learn why she does.


	5. I won’t hurt you

Sandor slept restlessly when he finally succumbed to slumber. He woke confused, uncertain if what he’d seen the prior night had merely been a dream. Only the details of the memory didn’t fade like a dream would as Sandor went through his morning ablutions, much as he wished they would.

When he emerged from his room sometime around midday, Edrick was leaning against the opposite wall, looking as casual as a person could be. “Luncheon with me, and we’ll talk.”

Sandor nodded and followed the man to the dining hall. He was surprised that Sansa wasn’t present, but also glad of it.

Sandor picked at the bread but didn’t bother with the stew. Edrick appeared to have appetite enough for both of them.

Many minutes passed before Sandor spoke, “How many… like you… are there?”

“Just me, as far as we know.”

Sandor nodded, “She knows what you are?”

“Of course,” Edrick chuckled, as if it was ludicrous to suggest his lady might not know he could shapeshift into a giant wolf-like creature.

“And she still loves you?”

Edrick’s brow furrowed, “Loves me?”

“Last night she called you ‘my love’.”

Edrick smiled, “That’s not what she said. She said ‘my ulv’.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s old tongue for wolf.”

Sandor rubbed his brow while he contemplated his next question. “When you… change… does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

Sandor wasn’t sure whether to be irritated by or grateful for Edrick’s minimal responses. Part of him wanted the man (or whatever he was) to just spill his entire story. A bigger part of him realized it might be easier to swallow in small bites. Problem was, there were so many questions in his mind it was hard to pick them out one at a time.

Eventually he settled on his next inquiry, “Were you born… that way?”

“No. I was made one.”

“By whom?”

“By the last wolf. My great-great-great uncle.”

“The last wolf? But you’re a wolf…”

“I meant by the _previous_ wolf. There is only one of us at a time.”

“Why?”

Edrick shrugged, “It’s old magic that gives us our power. There is only so much old magic left in the realm. They tried making more wolves, but it just made each one weaker.”

“Who’s _they_?”

“Sansa, and my great-great-great uncle, and his great-great-great uncle – her first wolf.”

Sandor’s eyes narrowed, “What… but… how could… how could all three of those people be alive at the same time?”

Edrick smiled sadly, “Sansa is older than she looks. I am older than I look.”

Sandor crossed his arms, “How much older?”

“I lived twenty-three years as a man, and I’m nearing my three hundredth year as a wolf.”

Sandor shook his head, suddenly feeling dizzy, “And her?”

“She lived eighteen years as a woman, and many more as… what she is now.”

“A she-wolf? Like you?”

Edrick shook his head, “No… but that is for her to tell you.”

“Bugger that! You expect me to believe you’re three hundred and twenty-three years old? And that she’s even older?”

“Do you believe what you saw last night?”

Sandor leaned back, “Aye. Wish I didn’t, though.”

“Then you accept that things beyond your comprehension can be true.”

“Fine. Say I believe you, what’s any of this got to do with me?”

Edrick’s eyes narrowed, “Isn’t it obvious?”

Sandor looked around the room as if the answer would reveal itself. It didn’t, so he shrugged, “No.”

Edrick sighed, “My time is coming to an end. I can feel it in my bones. I can feel it when I change. It’s time for me to pass my gift to another vessel.”

“ _Vessel?_ You mean another… oh, fuck no!” Sandor stood so quickly his chair fell over, “You think I’d let you turn me into a… a… a… whatever the fuck you are?!”

“I think you’ve no choice. You agreed last night. We gave you ample opportunity to decline.”

“Aye! Before I knew the truth! How was I supposed to bloody know you wanted to turn me into a fucking… whatever you are?!”

“You gave us your word. You must understand we cannot let you leave here knowing what you know. Certainly not to return south.”

“Try and stop me!”

Edrick stared at him blankly. The man wasn’t intimidated, and why should he be?

Regardless, Sandor stomped to his room like a petulant child. Also like a child, he spent the rest of the day sulking in a chair beneath the window, cursing Tywin Lannister, cursing Edrick, cursing Sansa, and cursing himself for letting curiosity get the better of him. When had he become such a fool?

…

The sky was dark when Sansa entered his room without knocking.

“I’m in no mood for talking,” he barked.

“Good, because I didn’t come to talk. I’m riding to town. You will come with me.”

“Get your dog to take you. Your _real_ dog.”

“You will come with me,” she repeated coolly.

Before he could spit out another refusal his gears started turning. If it was just she and him, he’d have an opportunity to escape. “Fine,” he grumbled, continuing to act reluctant.

It would be suspicious if he brought any of his possessions, but he could at least don his armor under pretext of being better able to protect her. But when he reached for his greaves, she stopped him, “Your armor won’t be needed. Your short sword will suffice. We’ll want to blend in.”

Sandor grumbled some more but obeyed, donning his sword belt, short sword, and dagger and covering himself with a dark cloak. It was only then he noticed that Sansa was dressed not in her silks but in a plain peasant’s frock and wool cloak.

They rode in complete silence, but it was far from a comfortable one.

It was midnight before they saw the evidence of a town coming into view. Sandor could smell the sea air, “Are we near Deepwood?”

She nodded.

Despite the late hour the town was bustling. If Sandor were to guess, he’d say a ship had recently made port. The men walking by stunk of fish and salt and sweat. Drunks were ambling about, and several inns and alehouses looked well occupied.

After stabling their horses Sansa turned to him then nodded toward the nearest inn, “I’m going in. You come in a few minutes after me, but don’t sit near me or acknowledge me in any way. Later, when I leave, do the same – follow a few minutes after, but don’t make it obvious you’re with me.”

“Where will you go when you leave?”

“South along the main road.”

“Is it wise to walk by yourself?” he asked before realizing it was exactly what he was hoping for – a chance to slip away.

She nodded, “If I need you, I’ll call out the name ‘Bryan’. Understand?”

“Aye. Go on then.” He watched her enter the inn, counted to three hundred, then followed.

He stood at the crowded bar and ordered an ale. The sounds of men talking, laughing, and arguing filled the space. Whores were giggling with false sweetness. The large hearth and number of bodies made the common room stifling hot, but Sandor didn’t remove his cloak.

Once his ale was delivered, he moved to casually lean against the far wall. From this vantage point he could see everyone, including Sansa who sat at a table near the door. Her hand rested on a wooden chalice, but never once did she lift it to her lips.

As soon as she left for her midnight stroll, Sandor would leave and make his way to the stables. He’d get Stranger and hope the bit of coin he had stitched into a hidden pouch in the saddle was enough to buy passage on the next ship to Lannisport. If it wasn’t, he would tell the captain who he was. The name _Hound_ ought to be well known even this far north. Many would gladly endear themselves to the Hound in the hopes of endearing themselves to the Hound’s master.

Of course, this would only work if there was a Lannisport-bound ship leaving soon.

Before he could come up with a contingency plan some drunk stumbled over to Sansa and invited himself to sit down. Over the din Sandor couldn’t make out their words but he could imagine them easily enough. He’d been in enough winesinks, alehouses, and inns to know how it went.

_What’s a sweet thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?_

_I’m not alone. My husband is meeting me here soon._

_And how soon might that be? Because I can be quick, especially with a pretty one like you._

_Please, ser, I’d like to drink in peace while I wait for my husband._

The man would or would not leave, and the husband would or would not show up.

This man made to grab Sansa’s hand, but she snatched it back, then stood abruptly and tied her cloak around her shoulders.

The man watched her walk out the main door, then not-so-subtly nodded over two men from the table where he’d been sitting. They not-so-subtly stood, dropped some coppers on the table, and left.

_Fucking hells._

Change of plans. He’d scare off the buggers, see her to the stables then part ways. She could ride to the castle and send her wolf after him, but hopefully he’d be on a ship – _any_ ship – by then. More likely she’d never send the wolf. She needed his protection, after all. More likely it was all an empty threat. She may have a wolf, but Tywin Lannister had armies. She wouldn’t risk angering the Great Lion by disposing of one of his most loyal men. Besides, what reason would she give? _“He wouldn’t let us turn him into a gigantic wolf, so we killed him.”_ No, Sandor would call her bluff tonight.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute since Sansa left, but when Sandor stepped out into the cold night air, neither she nor the men were anywhere in sight.

_Fuck!_

He began walking south as quickly as possible without garnering anyone’s attention.

The streets were noisy and crowded and his heart sped up at the realization that she could have been pulled into any number of buildings or side alleys. The men may have come up behind her and covered her mouth before she could scream for help.

He stopped at the first alley, but it was pitch black between the buildings and he couldn’t make out anything.

“BRYAN!”

He spun around in a panic. The voice seemed to have come from the opposite side of the street. He began running in that direction but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“BRYAN!”

The voice was a bit further south, he was sure, as long as echoes weren’t playing tricks on him. He ran that way, and at the second alley he passed there was enough moonlight to make out four shadowy figures. The men had Sansa backed against a stone wall.

He drew his sword and they heard it, turning in perfect unison and each pulling out a dagger. Sandor grinned. He could handle knife-wielding peasants with his eyes closed.

But before he got close enough to attack there was a blur of movement. Two of the men were on the ground. The third looked to be pissing himself, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Sansa spun and slammed him against the building so forcefully that Sandor could hear either stone or ribs cracking. With one hand clamped on his mouth and one crushing the wrist that held his dagger, she buried her mouth in his neck. She was biting him, right in the jugular by the look of it.

Sandor watched in horror, his own mouth agape like her attacker’s had been. Or was he her victim? Sandor wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed before she loosened her grip and let the man’s body fall to the ground with a thud. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and turned to face Sandor. “You did well,” she spoke calmly.

“No,” he shook his head and took a step back, “No… no… nononono…”

“Sandor, I won’t hurt you.”

“You’re a fucking witch! A demon! A… I don’t know what you are but stay the fuck away from me!”

She crossed her arms as if his shock was a mere inconvenience to her, “Throw his body over your shoulder. We’ll walk back to the stables and—”

“No!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “A wolf?! A witch?! What the f—”

The air was stolen from his lungs as his own body was thrown against the wall. Edrick stared up at him, “Keep your voice down, you dumb shit,” the man hissed.

Sandor could remember being a young lady, pinned to the wall by Gregor. When he tried to push Gregor away, it felt like all his strength only managed to budge Gregor an inch. But pushing against Edrick was like trying to push Casterly Rock right into the sea. A fucking tree trunk had more give.

Edrick watched him struggle with an expression somewhere between amusement and annoyance before becoming serious again, “Your lady gave you a command. You’ll toss this bugger over your shoulder and walk back with Sansa to the stables. The whole way, you’ll grumble about your stupid friend, drinking himself silly, not knowing his limits. You’ll toss him on your horse and both of you will ride back toward the keep.”

“Or what?” Sandor spat. It wasn’t very effective, as far as threats went, but a man needed to have his pride.

Edrick nodded at the two other men, either dead or unconscious on the ground, “Or you’ll join them in being my next meal.”

“You fucking—”

“What?!” Edrick spoke with feigned affront, “I won’t skin you alive, I’ll leave your bollocks intact, and you needn’t fear the flame,” the man had the nerve to grin at Sandor. _Grin!_

Sandor said no more, and though he couldn’t help the defiance in his eyes, he nodded his head.

It was easy enough to swing the corpse over his shoulder, and easier still to grumble and gripe the whole way back to the stables. He cursed his luck, cursed his stupid _friend_ , and cursed the Gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone cares, I added two photos to the end of Ch. 4. The top one is my main inspiration for Edrick's wolf, but with a little more bulk and slightly shorter arms, like the lower photo. Underworld fans may recognize the white wolf as William Corvinus.


	6. I have all night

Sandor paced his room feeling like a rabbit in a snare. How the fuck did he get involved with this shape-shifting wolf-man and this… whatever Sansa was? A bloodsucking witch!

All he ever wanted was a simple life. Training in the yard, guarding his lord, then drinking himself into a stupor or finding a few minutes of pleasure in a whore’s cunt.

He didn’t want to be part of some convoluted schemes to lure rapers into dark alleys. He didn’t want to be some giant man-eating wolf!

_Let them take my head. Fuck if I care._

It was no longer a frightening prospect, not that it ever had been, particularly, but he could always try an escape. Ride as fast and as far as he could. Test his theory that Edrick wouldn’t leave his lady’s side to hunt him down. Even if he did, Sandor was unmatched with a sword. He’d stand a chance against the wolf. The creature couldn’t be bloody invincible. Edrick had said his time was coming to an end – did that mean he was becoming weak? Then Sandor remembered the man’s strength the prior night. ‘Weak’ for Edrick was still stronger than any man Sandor had ever faced.

Sandor broke his fast by guzzling wine while hacking into a strawman in the training yard. The other castle inhabitants occasionally passed him suspicious glances, but he paid them no heed.

The only one who seemed unafraid of him was the servant girl – Evie. Around midday as he stomped back toward the kitchens to find himself more wine, she shouted to him, “Oi, ser, lend a hand?”

He huffed his annoyance but walked over and grabbed the overfilled wash basket from her hands then nodded his chin for her to lead the way.

“My thanks, Ser. S’pose it’s light as a feather to you, but it’s an awful strain on my back,” the girl pressed her hands to her lower back and pushed out her chest, causing several vertebrae to pop.

“No thanks needed, and I’m not a ser.”

“Right. Clegane, I’ll call you, then.”

“Fine,” he grumbled as he dropped the basket unceremoniously next to the wash basin.

“Nice to see a new face around here,” she smiled.

“Nothing nice about this face; don’t fuck with me, girl.”

Evie shrugged, “The face is new, even if its owner ain’t nice, but it’s nice to see the new face anyhow. Fair enough?”

“Whatever,” Sandor resumed his stomping back toward the kitchen.

“You know how I met our queen?”

Sandor spun around, “You’ve met Cersei Lannister?”

The girl rolled her eyes, “ _Our_ queen. Lady Sansa.”

“She’s a bloody queen now? Fine. How’d you meet her?”

“My big brother took me to town for my nameday. Said he’d buy me a new dress. I had just turned ten.”

“Let me guess, she sucked your brother’s blood dry and kidnapped you?” Sandor responded drily.

“Not quite,” the girl smiled, “You see, my parents had both died of the pox, leaving just me and my brother. He was an awful sort, always had been. He was five years older, and twice as big.”

“Is there a point to this story?”

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Aye, in the kitchens, getting more wine.”

“The wine’ll keep. Anyway, my brother didn’t know how to keep ‘is hands to his self. Never did. When Pa was alive, he’d get the belt. When Pa died, no belt. Anyhow, after dress shopping, he took me to an inn and bought me some sweet ale. ‘Parently, Lady Sansa was there and she saw he was _off_. When my brother took me up to a room, he barely ‘ad time to put ‘is cock in me before he was ripped away. I’m sure you can figure out the rest. ‘At was nigh on three years ago. Been serving ‘ere ever since and haven’t ‘ad a hand laid on me since.”

“Fine, she’s a bloody septa then, that what you’re saying? She’s a _hero_? A knight in silk armor?”

“She _is_ a hero. And to more’n just me. Ask Shaleen while you’re in the kitchens. Ask her how her face got carved up. Ask her how she got with lit’l Donny.” The girl dunked her hands into the water and began scrubbing, signaling an end to the largely one-sided conversation.

He told himself it didn’t matter. So Sansa did some good, she was still an abomination. Something unnatural. Like a flame that can’t be blown out. Or a pig that talks.

Yet when Shaleen refilled his wineskin, he found himself blurting out, “How’d you get that scar, girl?”

She snorted, “That tale’s no prettier than the one about how you got yours, I imagine.”

“Humor me.”

She crossed her arms, “Married a right cunt. Spent more time drinking than working. And spent more time beating me than drinking. Aye, I thought I could handle it. Got to live on his pa’s farm, weren’t so bad. He got worse o’er the months though. Wasn’t enough to see bruises, wanted to see blood. So he got fond of using his dirk on me. Little nicks here and there, less painful than the blows, truth be told. Only one day I got tired of it, fought back some. You see, I’d found out I were with child and had hoped he’d lay off for a bit. He didn’t like that at all. Swung that blade and damn near took my eye out. Was bleeding something fierce, so he’d no choice but to take me to the wise woman at the nearest village. She stitched me up. Five days later, Lady Sansa come in the night. She asked if I wanted ‘im dead fast or slow. I chose slow. She obliged me. Then she took me in, even knowing I were with child. Got food and lodging in exchange for fair work. Even lets Donny take lessons with the maester. And soon Robbett will start training ‘im in the yard.”

Sandor grunted in response. The woman eyed him curiously, “So, was I right?”

“About what?”

“Is my tale any prettier than yours?”

Sandor shrugged, “Rather be cut than burned, but otherwise, no.”

The woman nodded toward his hand, “Easy on the wine. Lady Sansa don’t like drunkards. And shipments from Dorne only come this far north twice each year.”

She went back to kneading dough and Sandor left her in peace.

…

He had no interest in dining with Sansa and Edrick that evening. He felt they had deceived him. He felt like a prisoner though without the manacles and dark cell. Worst of all, he felt like a fool.

But more than anything, he felt _confused_.

He didn’t know how much Lord Tywin knew of Sansa’s plans for him, but he couldn’t believe the man would knowingly condemn him to an undesirable fate. That meant either the man _didn’t_ know the truth, or he knew and thought that Sandor would be willing to be a part of it.

The idea of becoming a wolf – a shapeshifting beast – was unappealing on the surface. But after a day’s worth of contemplation he recognized that other men would kill for such a power. To be an apex predator. To be granted centuries of life instead of decades. To never have to fear another person or creature. Perhaps if Sandor were a smaller man, a more fearful man, the appeal would have been great. But there was only one thing he ever feared – fire – and only one person – Gregor.

He had no reason to suspect that Edrick, even in his wolf form, was impervious to flames. But he couldn’t imagine that the beast he could become at will would be easy prey for any man; nay – any _ten_ men, Gregor included.

Sandor was ashamed to find himself fantasizing about turning into that incredible beast and finding Gregor; stalking him. Then, only after Gregor was trembling with fear, ripping him limb from limb with his dagger-like claws and gnashing teeth. _That_ was the appeal – seeing Gregor’s crazed eyes brimming with something other than sick amusement or fury; seeing them overflowing with dread as he realized his imminent demise. Perhaps Sandor would shift back into his human form in the final moments before Gregor closed his eyes for good. He’d let his _big brother_ see who had slain him. Let him carry that memory through the Seven Hells for company.

“You did not come to dinner.”

Sandor startled and turned. He hadn’t heard her approach down the hallway, nor the sound of his chamber door opening.

He took a swig of wine, “Not hungry.”

“But thirsty, I see.”

“If I wanted to be nagged about how much I drink, I’d have taken a wife long ago.”

She ignored the insult, “You drink to ease your woes.”

“Aye, doesn’t everyone?”

“Some drink to make merry. You do not look any merrier than when I first laid eyes on you, when you were stone sober.”

“Well, a lot has changed since then.”

“No. Nothing has changed. I am still what I was that night. As is Edrick. As are you.”

“Aye, but for how long? How long until you make me like him, whether I will it or not?”

“Why wouldn’t you will it?” the words came out not like a challenge, but a genuine curiosity.

Sandor didn’t have an answer, so he didn’t speak.

She took the seat across from him and for long minutes did nothing but stare into the low fire in the hearth. Donny had lit it; Sandor would have done without.

“It’s funny the things we appreciate only after they’ve been taken away.”

Sandor snorted, “Like your soul?”

She cocked her head, “You believe I am soulless?”

He shrugged, “Unnatural, is what you are. A demon. A witch. A sorceress. Mayhap all of them.”

Surprisingly, she nodded, “You’re right. Nothing about this life feels natural. It’s unnatural to feel no cold even when I walk barefoot through the snow. It’s unnatural for any pain I feel to be fleeting – for any wound to heal in a matter of seconds. It’s unnatural to be nearly impervious to the steel of a man’s sword, to the strength of a man’s fists, but to be completely vulnerable to something as gentle as the sun’s rays.”

Sandor looked at her, “What does that mean?”

She quirked an eyebrow, “Would you believe that I have been burned worse than you, and more times than you?”

“You bear no scars.”

“No. It is a blessing and a curse that I never carry the scars of what I’ve endured. A blessing because I can remain beautiful and untainted. A curse because men assume beauty is weakness. They assume scars are a badge of strength. I learned long ago that men will always try to possess me – think they can because they think me pretty and weak. It took some time before I realized I could use that to my advantage. I can survive without ever killing an innocent, so long as the world continues to produce monsters, I will feast only on their blood.”

“You think your existence is justified then?”

“I think nothing of my existence. I simply… exist.”

More silence passed as Sandor contemplated her words, not to mention the words of Evie and Shaleen from earlier. He desperately wanted to find an objection to Sansa’s existence, but he couldn’t. Death had never bothered him. Certainly not _righteous_ deaths. He enjoyed killing, but it was always sweetest when the person truly deserved that fate… when he and his men were sent out to hunt down a brigand of bandits or rapers making its way through the villages and farmlands.

“I do have one scar, though. Would you care to see it?”

His eyes rolled slowly from the flames to the woman. He nodded once.

She stood and moved closer to where he sat. She lifted her dress at the place where the slit closed just below her hip. She lifted it high enough that Sandor caught a peek of auburn curls partially obstructed by black silk. But that’s not what drew his eye. About a finger’s length above her hip bone was a jagged line of scar, pink and slightly raised.

She let him have his look, but he wanted to do more than look. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to taste it.

The fabric dropped back down before his traitorous fingers or tongue could overpower his mind.

“It was a blade belonging to the Night’s King. Have you heard of him?”

“A myth,” Sandor mumbled.

“Surely you believe in the Long Night and the Last Night. They’ve been documented in history tomes by maesters sworn to preserve the truth.”

“Aye, I believe that there was a winter so bleak that it brought months of darkness. I believe that with so much darkness, men go mad. They see things. Wildlings attack, wearing their necklaces of bones, and men think it is walking corpses they are seeing.”

“So you do not believe in the Others? Or the Wights?”

Sandor shrugged, “Neither believe nor disbelieve. If they ever existed, they’re gone now. But I wasn’t alive to see them, so I can’t say.”

Sansa nodded, “It is wise to not believe in something until you’ve seen it. Wiser still to not refute its existence simply because you _haven’t_ seen it.”

“Then I suppose I’m a very wise man. You going to get to your point?”

She smiled, “I have all night, Sandor Clegane. And I’d like to spend it by telling you a story…”


	7. Blood of the wolf

**Nine hundred and eight years ago**

_“We should prepare to retreat south, your grace.”_

_“Northmen don’t run from a fight.”_

_“It’s a fight we cannot win! There is no shame in choosing survival. Would you see every northern man, woman, and child die for your pride?!”_

_“We’ll send the women and children south, then!”_

_“With whom?! If we stay and fight, we need every able-bodied man and boy. We cannot afford to send a part of our force with the women and children. And they will not last a sennight on that journey by themselves!”_

_“Then we stick to the original plan. We make our stand here, while the women and children take shelter in the crypts.”_

_“We cannot defeat them! Every time we leave the castle, we lose men. If not to the wights then to the elements!”_

Ned listened to the arguing voices all around him, but he did not speak. He was certain that staying and fighting would mean their death just as he was sure that trying to flee south would mean their death. So the options were stay and die or leave and die. Staying would preserve the men’s pride but leaving would preserve the people’s hope. _Is it better to have hope in one’s final days, or pride?_

“King Stark!” a new voice shouted from the doorway, “A lone rider has asked for entry.”

“Who?”

“A woman. She calls herself a Priestess. Claims to have critical information for your ears only.”

Ned was tired. Ned was ready to give up, and if not for Bran and Sansa, he would have by now. He didn’t want to listen to another man or woman, driven mad by the darkness, claim to have special powers, or to have seen a prophecy. He still shivered to think of the lord-turned-lunatic who claimed the Night’s King could be appeased by a sacrifice of seven maidens. It wasn’t the man’s crazed theory that frightened Ned, but the fact that several other men and women took up his cause. Desperation is a dangerous thing.

Ned turned to his closest friend and confidante. Howland Reed gave him a meaningful glance and tipped his chin subtly. Ned sighed, “See her to my solar.”

…

For a moment he thought she was Cat. Firelight played in the woman’s auburn hair and made her porcelain skin shine gold. If not for her eyes, deep brown rather than blue, Ned would have been convinced he had gone mad, that he was imagining the ghost of his wife.

_If that’s what I’d see, I wouldn’t mind going mad…_

Cat was gone some months now… or perhaps years. The darkness stole their sense of time. Maester Luwin provided an estimated range, and it was based mainly on sleeping and eating patterns. But those could be disrupted by the darkness and were thus unreliable, not to mention food was being carefully rationed, so everyone was hungry all the time. Letters from the southern kingdoms would have helped, but the relentless winter storms meant they hadn’t received a raven or messenger in months. _Or years._

Cat took ill with a fever shortly after their eldest, Robb, fell in battle. Their youngest, Rickon, took ill as well, as did their youngest daughter, Arya. All three perished from an illness they would have survived if they had fruits and vegetables and sunlight. But boiled grains and salted meats did little to nourish their ailing bodies. It was still odd when Ned thought about it. Cat had birthed five children almost easily yet died of a mere fever. Arya and Rick were the sturdiest of his children yet died of a fever. Ned was left with a crippled son who would never be able to carry on the Stark legacy, and a delicate daughter whose beauty and gentility could end a war against any man… if only the foe they faced was a _man_.

Oh Ned loved his surviving children, truly. Bran reminded him of his own brother Benjen, one of the few Starks still alive to this day. And Sansa was a little duplicate of her mother. Beautiful, sweet, poised. Her smiles were contagious, as were her giggles. Her songs warmed the halls of Winterfell better than the dwindling stores of firewood ever could.

She had once been promised to an Umber of Last Hearth, a strapping lad of twenty, but Last Hearth was among the first to fall when the Night’s King marched his army south after bringing down the Wall using some type of dark magic that Ned believed in but didn’t understand.

Even in the face of war and unending darkness, men continued to vie for Sansa’s hand. Lord Bolton, who’d lost his wife and would-be heir in the birthing bed, made his interest known. As did Lord Glover, on behalf of his son. Practically every northern house made a plea for Sansa, but she had become too valuable now. If ever communication with the southern kingdoms was restored, Ned could offer Sansa’s hand to the Lord who agreed to fight alongside the North. A Lannister, a Baratheon, a Hightower, a Frey… he’d take any help he could get – any chance to save his people. And Sansa was a dutiful daughter, she would accept the betrothal gladly. That’s why protecting Sansa was now Ned’s greatest priority. Not only could she save the North, but she was the last Stark that could bear children, assuming Ned never remarried. So Ned put his most trusted man in charge of her safety. Jory Cassel, the Captain of the Guards, was her constant shadow. Ned gave him explicit instructions to strike down any man that made advances on Sansa, even if he be an Umber, Karstark, Bolton, Glover, Reed, or Mormont.

The Priestess stood when he went too long without speaking, “King Stark, I beg your time and consideration, for I have information and _help_ to offer.”

Ned nodded for her to continue.

“The living are losing the war against the dead.”

“I already know that.”

“But what you do not know that it is an _unwinnable_ war. Even if the weather turned in your favor, even if every fighting man and woman in Westeros joined your ranks, you would still lose.”

“And why is that, Lady…?”

“Lady Maedalyn. Please, your grace, if this army is not stopped, it will ravage _all_ of Westeros. As far as Dorne, there will never be another sunrise. There will never be a day without snow and cold and wind. There will never be a beating heart in any man or beast. The dead will inherit the realm. And the being that rules them will be the only king… the last king… and he will reign for eternity.”

“Again, Lady Maedalyn, I’ve assumed as much. But the southerners haven’t heeded our past calls for aid, and now we are cut off from communicating with them. Even if we could reach them, even if they answered the call, they’d lose half their force on the march to Winterfell. And by the time they reach us, it may be too late. I haven’t given up. I will take any aid offered, but I cannot count on it.”

“Nor should you, because no army can defeat the Others, as I’ve told you. The Night’s King is no man. He is neither living nor dead. He is… _immortal_. He is supernatural. And only something supernatural can destroy him.” At concluding her speech, she pulled a necklace out from beneath her cloak. At the end, where a pretty pendant should dangle, there was a small glass vial containing some black liquid.

She bid Ned to come closer to the hearth, and he did. She held the vial out and he could see now it wasn’t black but red. Deep, dark, purplish red.

_Blood._

She spoke in a quiet voice, “My people have guarded this for generations. Since the days of the Children of the Forest. This vial contains the gift of immortal life and infinite power.”

Ned snorted, “I don’t believe in such—”

“Please, your grace, let me finish.” The woman seemed unimpressed with the fact that she was addressing a king. Then again, Ned rarely felt like a king these days, so he could hardly fault her. He nodded for her to continue.

“As I was saying, this vial contains immortal life and infinite power. But only the purest of hearts is worthy of it. The power is too great to give to someone impure of heart – someone who would wield the power to do harm. There is a spell on this vial, and only the person worthy of this gift can open it. I have heard great things of you, Eddard Stark. I’ve heard that your sense of honor is unwavering. That you are a good king. That you are a good father. That you were a good husband. Visions of Winterfell have compelled my feet to travel a great distance, and I believe it is because this is destined for you.”

Ned stared at the woman. Perhaps this was an elaborate scheme to get him to drink poison. But what difference would that make? One man, even a king, wouldn’t be the difference between winning and losing this war.

He chuckled then, for probably the first time in months. Or years. He wondered if he was going mad, after all. “Fine, my lady. I shall drink this _gift._ ” He grabbed the vial from her hands, but when he went to pull the small cork, it was jammed.

Her brow knitted while Ned tried again and again, using all his strength, but he couldn’t so much as loosen the closure.

She shook her head, “It must be another, then. I know the Lord of Light would not have led me to Winterfell if the man worthy of this gift were not here, now.”

Ned nodded, not sure why he was agreeing to this. Hopelessness did strange things to a man. Made him believe in things he’d consider folly at any other time. The Old Gods were failing them. Catelyn’s New Gods were failing them. Perhaps this woman’s _Lord of Light_ was the deity he should put his stock in.

Over the course of hours, they called in at least half the men in the castle. At least, any that Ned deemed pure of heart, or at least not _impure_ of heart. He knew by now the men who enjoyed killing more than they should. The men who were rumored to be rough with their wives or whores. The men who were always trying to advance their position, that is, before this Long Night made all titles and lordships as useless as nipples on a breastplate.

Lord Reed and his sons, Lady Mormont, Lord Umber and his sons. Ned’s good-uncle Brynden Tully. Rodrik Cassel and his nephew Jory… countless others… All were brought into Ned’s solar one at a time and asked to open the vial. No details were given, but few questioned their king.

“You have a son,” Maedalyn said quietly once Ned had run out of candidates. The two of them were alone once more, and Ned didn’t understand why he felt so disheartened when he didn’t truly believe Lady Maedalyn’s story to begin with.

Ned looked up at her, “Bran. He is a cripple. He is not even three and ten. It cannot be him.”

Maedalyn sighed, “This gives infinite power, remember? Your son would no longer be a cripple.”

Ned snapped his head up and felt a surge of something that closely resembled hope, “Of course… my heir… Bran is pure-hearted! He is a smart boy, a kind boy. This gift you offer will not just save the realm, it will restore Bran’s health… it will restore the Stark legacy! Both Bran and Sansa will carry on the Stark bloodline!” Ned was so excited he practically ran to the door and shouted at a page to bring his son.

Several minutes later Sansa pushed Bran in on his wheeled chair, with Jory in her wake, as always.

Ned grinned at his boy, “Bran, my son… open this vial.”

He ignored the curious way both his children looked at him and handed Bran the vial.

With a shrug Bran tried to uncork it, but it did not release.

All the hope vacated Ned’s heart as the air left his lungs.

Bran continued struggling with the tiny cork, just as Ned had hours earlier.

“Oh let me see that, how can it be so hard to open?” Sansa snatched the vial and uncorked it like it was nothing. She scowled at Bran then Ned, “Is this some type of jape?”

The room began to spin. Ned was vaguely aware of Jory helping him to sit. His ears felt full of cotton. Jory and Bran were speaking to him.

He held his head in his hands, shaking his skull until his vision cleared.

The Priestess was whispering to Sansa.

“No!” Ned stood and rounded on the cursed woman, “No!”

“Father! What is—” Sansa peeped.

“No!” Ned dropped to his feet, clutching his daughter’s tiny waist, “No… it cannot be her. You are wrong!”

The Priestess crouched beside him, “Do you doubt your daughter is pure of heart?”

“She is the purest creature I’ve ever known. But it can’t be her. She cannot face that… that… that _monster!”_

The woman sighed, “Then she and everyone else in the realm will perish. Your son. Your men. You. You would condemn your daughter to death instead of giving her the gift of eternal life and strength?”

“Eternal life… what is she speaking of, my king?” Jory asked.

Ned was powerless to do anything but hold his daughter as Maedalyn repeated all she had told him privately. Once her tale was concluded, all were silent.

The moment Sansa’s lips parted to speak, Ned knew he had lost.

She spoke not to him, not to any of them, yet to all of them, “I had a dream when last I slept. A _lovely_ dream. It was night, but the snow was gone. The air was warm. The moon and stars cast a glow on everything… Do you realize it’s not just the sun we’ve missed, but also the moon? The storms have stolen the sun, moon, and stars. Anyway, I was running through an open field. Lady ran by my side, but she looked different. It was Lady’s spirit in the body of a different wolf… almost like Grey Wind, but not quite. As we ran, I felt strong and powerful and _free_. I could keep up with her even as she ran at full speed. I was far from home, yet I had no fear. Like nothing could hurt me. When I woke, I cried, because that feeling was gone. I wished so desperately that it had been real…”

Sansa had spoken the words into the hearth as if entranced by the flames. When she turned back to them, a knowing look passed between she and Lady Maedalyn.

Sansa was a woman grown now, and perhaps she didn’t need his permission for _this_ , but Ned gave it anyway. He nodded his head though it took much willpower to do so.

Without another word, Maedalyn led Sansa from the room. Ned didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time he’d see his daughter.

…

Many hours later, Ned sat in the great hall, alone but for Maester Luwin. The old healer was never idle. He had pulled every book of ancient lore he could find in Winterfell’s library. They chronicled countless creatures Ned had never believed in. Demons. Manticores. Grumpkins. Sea dragons. Sphinxes. Chimeras. Deep Ones. Old Ones. Snarks. Selkies. Giants. Firewyrms. Zorses. Centaurs. Children of the Forest.

The Others…

Ned had seen the Others with his own eyes. Hells, he’d even fought them. He’d also seen a Giant. If Others and Giants existed, then perhaps all of these mythical beings existed.

A cool hand on his neck startled Ned so much that he spilled his goblet of spiced wine. He turned and found Sansa staring back at him.

“Father,” she spoke softly.

“Sansa,” he grasped her hands and kissed them. In the hours since Lady Maedalyn locked herself and Sansa in Sansa’s bedchamber, Ned’s stomach had roiled. He wondered what his daughter would look like when she emerged. Would she have lizard scales? Dragon wings? The glowing blue eyes of the Others?

But she stood before him now looking like herself, only not. She stared down at him with knowing eyes. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and cradled his head to her chest. Ned sobbed into her bosom as he’d done to Cat after Robb died. Sansa held him like she was the mother and he the son.

Whatever had changed in her made him love her no less, but his love had changed. She wasn’t his sweet daughter. He felt it in his bones. She was something… _different._ She was ancient. She was powerful. She had the wisdom of those that live many decades, nay – centuries. She was still Sansa Stark, but she wasn’t his daughter. She was…

_His queen._

She wore only a dressing gown, yet she turned from him and walked toward the exit. With ease, she shoved open the door that had shoulder-deep snow blown against it. She climbed out and Ned didn’t stop her. She didn’t need his help anymore.

Numbly, he made his way to Sansa’s chambers, hoping Maedalyn could give him some reassurance. Some clarity. Some… peace.

He found the priestess sprawled on the bed. The hair that had been auburn was now streaked with white. Her brown eyes were dull. Her perfect skin was cracked and wrinkled.

Ned ran to her side, grasping a fragile hand, “Lady Maedalyn, what has—”

The woman’s voice was hoarse as she spoke, “What needed to be done. The girl needed to feed.”

“Feed?”

“Blood. She will save the realm of men, and the realm of men will pay her in blood.”

“What madness do you speak of?!” But he saw it plain as day. Two puncture wounds on the woman’s papery throat, with stains where blood had leaked down the side of her neck to the pillow.

Ned groaned with rage, “Why did you not tell us?”

“You would not have agreed… Nor would she.”

“What else didn’t you tell us?!” he was shaking her shoulders now, too far gone to care that it bordered on abusive given her state.

“She is borne of darkness and made of dark magic... When she ends the night, she will be vulnerable. You must... protect her.”

“What does that mean?!”

“She is a predator without equal… prey only to the sun.”

“What does that mean? Sunlight will hurt her?!” Anger welled inside Ned’s chest. This priestess said Sansa would be immortal and powerful – how could that be true if mere sunlight would harm her?

The woman nodded as her eyes drifted shut. Ned shook her shoulders again, and she woke long enough to issue a final warning, her words spoken in clipped phrases between gasps for breath, “Men will fear her by night… hunt her by day. She needs… daytime guardian. Her dream… the wolf… blood of the wolf. A sacrifice must be made… The first full moon after the night ends… One will step forward, brave and true. One chance… the magic is strong… needs a… vessel. She is one... There musss… must be another.”

“What does that mean? How?!” he shouted.

Her eyes drooped closed, “Burn me, King Stark.”

He shook her shoulders more roughly than the woman deserved, “How?! Tell me how to protect her!”

But she was gone. Dead. And all the answers with her. Ned felt cheated. The Priestess had said his daughter would be all-powerful, but how could that be true if the very sun would harm her? Why would an immortal being need a protector?!

Ned turned to leave and found Sansa in the doorway, watching him.

“I have no regrets father,” she turned and left, to where, Ned did not know.

…

When the castle inhabitants began to wake, Ned called only his most trusted men to his solar, along with his children.

Only Bran and Jory had heard what Maedalyn had to say, and Ned doubted that they spoke a word of it to anyone, yet each man and woman present looked at Sansa with wary eyes. Only Jory looked at her not in fear but in… awe. The man looked enraptured.

Indeed, she was enchanting, his once-daughter. Whatever magic made her strong and durable did something else. Something was subtly different about her, though Ned couldn’t pinpoint it. She was more beautiful even though her features hadn’t changed.

Ned cleared his throat, ready to share what he’d decided the prior night, but first he told all of them about the _gift_ that had been given to Sansa. Of course, they were more than a bit skeptical.

With no showmanship or arrogance, Sansa asked for Jory’s dagger and slit a deep cut along her wrist. Everyone winced at the sight of blood pouring to the stone floor, then gasped when the cut closed before their eyes, leaving no trace of a wound. No scab, no scar.

Ned was as speechless as everyone else but eventually regained his wits, “We will begin preparing for the march north. We will meet this Night’s King in battle. All of our forces will be needed to make a stand. We cannot assume Lady Sansa will be allowed to simply walk up to this creature unmolested. We need to put her in a position to face him, which means a group of our finest warriors must act as her escort and guard. They will face the Others while the rest of the army deals with the wights. I will not lie. I’d sooner face a hundred wights than a single Other, but to protect my daughter – to protect our last hope – I will be a part of this group.”

Ned paused to take a breath, and in that second of silence Jory stepped forward, “It would be an honor to fight by your side, my king, and to lay my life down to protect your daughter, if it should come to that.”

Ned was taken aback. He hadn’t expected volunteers for what would likely be a suicide mission. And, selfishly, he didn’t want the people in this room to risk their lives. These men and women needed to survive. If men prevailed, those men would need wise and just rulers.

But perhaps he’d been foolish to think these fierce and loyal people would not go where the fighting would be thickest. Ned nodded at Jory, even managing to summon a small but genuine smile.

Brynden Tully, Catelyn’s uncle, was next to step forward. Then Ned’s brother, Benjen. Then Alayne Mormont. Then Robin Flint. Then Benton Glover. One by one they laid their swords down not at Ned’s feet but at Sansa’s. It needn’t have been said, they’d all felt what Ned had felt himself – that she was no longer a princess – she was a queen. _**The** queen…_

…

Seven flesh-and-blood warriors and one immortal princess faced the Night’s King and his six remaining commanders while around them thousands of northmen fought and died in the face of enemy that felt neither cold nor pain... an enemy that never yielded and never tired. 

Even with a one-person advantage, the warriors would have lost had Sansa’s direwolf not appeared out of the night and tackled the Night’s King to the ground. Lady had been locked up in Winterfell’s kennels when the men rode out. Without armor, the wolf was too vulnerable to bring to battle – they learned that lesson when Robb’s Grey Wind was felled within minutes of one of the first battles against the wights, then brought back as part of the Night’s King’s army. The large, undead direwolf killed at least two dozen men before being put down.

But somehow Lady had gotten loose. For years after that fateful night some speculated it was the ghost of the Priestess, or even of Lady Catelyn, that set her free. Others said it was a strong gust of wind sent by the Old Gods that threw up the latch on her kennel. The most credible swore they saw Bran Stark dragging himself through the snow to free the beast from the kennels shortly after the army marched out of Winterfell’s North Gate.

Whatever or whoever they had to thank, the direwolf distracted the Night’s King long enough for a wounded Sansa to rip his heart out of his chest through his belly. The moment she punctured the heart with her fingernails, the Night’s King shattered into nothingness, along with every creature in his unholy army.

Of the seven warriors, only Brynden Tully was relatively unscathed. The others were dead, all but Jory who was soon to join them, bleeding from too many wounds to count. With a groan he rolled himself onto one knee, leaning all his weight on his sword, the tip anchored in the frozen ground.

“Should’ve kneeled to you years ago,” he struggled to speak as blood leaked from his mouth.

Sansa knew it was an admission of love. Jory was a loyal retainer but too lowborn to ask for the hand of King Stark’s daughter. Yet in his dying moment, he admitted that he had always wanted that which was out of reach, and Sansa’s heart clenched painfully behind her ribs.

Lady was lying in the snow, panting rapidly. The Night’s King managed to slice open her belly as the wolf took him to the ground. Sansa lost her father and an uncle that night. She was soon to lose her wolf. She had already lost a mother, two brothers, and a sister. She was also losing a man who would have loved her, who would have died for her… who _was_ dying for her.

Despondent, Sansa fell to her knees and let her head drop back. She watched as the clouds began to drift apart. The constant snowstorm brought by the Night’s King’s power was already clearing. Little by little, stars were revealed. It had been so long since anyone had seen stars. Something once taken for granted now seemed so very precious.

As more of the sky was revealed, the air around her brightened. The moon was full. She stared at it, blinking. It was so large she was able to see the shadows of its landscape.

_Full moon._

_The blood of the wolf._

_A sacrifice must be made._

_One will step forward._

Maedalyn’s words weren’t instructions, they were a _prophecy_. The moon was full. The wolf had already sacrificed itself. And one man had stepped forward before all others. One man now used the last of his strength to kneel before his queen instead of dying on his back – a final demonstration of respect.

Without thinking Sansa pushed Jory to lay down. She whispered words of comfort to Lady as she pulled her dying wolf to lay with her neck over Jory’s. She thanked Lady and promised she’d never forget her, then she swiped her dagger across her neck and ordered Jory to drink.

The air surged just as it had done the night Sansa drank the blood from the vial. It sent a vibration through the barren tree branches and the very ground on which she sat. She knew now what it was. The magic in the air all around them was flowing into Jory’s body. _The vessel_ , Maedalyn had said…

She watched as his wounds healed much like her wrist had when she demonstrated her powers to her father’s bannermen. She watched him contort in excruciating pain she knew so well. But while Sansa’s was the pain of her body being vacated – through her mouth, her bladder, her bowels, and her pores; Jory’s was the pain of his body becoming _filled_. His back and shoulders seemed to widen before her eyes. His leather vambraces and greaves squeaked as they were stretched from the inside.

She and whoever else survived watched him writhe in agony, screaming and wailing and begging for death. Some men vomited. More walked to get as far away from the sight and sounds as possible. But Sansa merely kneeled by his side.

She estimated an hour passed before he collapsed against the ground, asleep, or more likely passed out.

She herself pulled the cart they loaded him onto. She dragged him straight to her chambers so she could tend to him when he woke. While she waited, she scanned through the pages of every book Maester Luwin had given her on ancient lore and mythical beasts. Bran joined her. Together the last Starks read as much as they could to prepare for a future that would look nothing like the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's Sansa's origin story! Ta-da!! You'll learn even more about it, including my made-up history of the Red Priestesses, in upcoming chapters. 
> 
> And yes, I totally took "daytime guardian" straight out of Underworld franchise. I always loved the idea of werewolves being protectors of vampires, but not as slaves like they were in Underworld Rise of the Lycans. More like a willing co-dependency. "Protect us during the day when we're weak, and in exchange we'll fight alongside you when humans try to hunt you". That kinda thing. Why can't we all just get along?


	8. My shaen

“This Jory… he was your first wolf?” Sandor rasped. He’d listened to her story with nary an interruption. The sweet and gentle princess that became an immortal queen… perhaps the most powerful being in existence. Suffice to say, it was a compelling story for a man who despised fairy tales.

She smiled, “He was. It took some time for us to realize what he could do. There was nothing in the tomes about a half man, half wolf. We thought he might be a warg – that is, a person who can take over the body and brain of another creature. He tried warging into Bran’s wolf, Summer. It didn’t work,” she laughed. “It was the next full moon… Jory was… _feral_. He was burning up as if with fever. He said his skin was crawling, that his bones were itching. He stumbled outside and no one was strong enough to stop him. Only me, and I couldn’t deny him the chance to find relief. He began contorting right there in the melting snow under the light of the moon. His skin steamed in the cold. He ran into the woods, and I ordered that no one should follow. So only I saw what he became – the beast you saw two nights ago.”

She took a deep breath before continuing, “Jory and my great uncle Brynden, along with myself, Bran, and Maester Luwin were the only ones who knew the full truth… others had their suspicions, of course. Those that saw me kill the Knight’s King. Those that saw Jory run fevered and mad into the woods and emerge hours later hale and healthy. But people were eager to get back to their lives. To rebuild their homes. To prepare the lands for spring plantings. To marry and make babies now that the world wasn’t so bleak. I only entrusted the truth with the surviving Cassels and Tullies. They pledged their houses to me in perpetuity. The sons of House Cassel and daughters of House Tully serve me. Jeyne is a Tully. Martyn is a Cassel. Robbett is a Cassel, as is Edrick.”

“Who else knows? Lord Tywin?”

Sansa teetered her hand, “Lord Tywin knows something, but doesn’t know everything. He knows because I offered him my services. Surely you’ve heard of the Mad King?”

“Aye. Tywin’s son Jaime put him down after the Baratheons, Boltons, Arryns, and later Lannisters waged war against him to take the throne.”

Sansa pursed her lips, “There is more to the story. King Aerys had a penchant for cruelty. He burnt people alive because he thought they were betraying him. Some were, of course. Other’s weren’t. Roose Bolton’s father and elder brother were among the men he killed when they rode to the capital to demand justice for a Bolton niece that had been kidnapped by Aerys’ son and heir, Rhaegar.”

“Heard the story,” Sandor nodded, “How were you involved?”

“I may appear to live an isolated life, but I am not uninformed. The Baratheons, Boltons, and Arryns weren’t enough… the Targaryens and their allies were too strong, the city too impenetrable. I sailed to Casterly Rock, along with Edrick. I convinced Lord Lannister that only _he_ could win the war, by exploiting the trust King Aerys had in him. The gates would be opened to him. In exchange I told him Edrick and I would infiltrate the keep and protect his son and heir, Jaime.”

Sandor nodded, “Ser Jaime was Aerys’ Kingsguard. Lord Lannister hated that fact, thought the Mad King did it to spite him – to steal his heir.”

“Indeed,” Sansa nodded.

“Wait – I lived at Casterly Rock during Robert’s Rebellion…”

Sansa smiled softly, “You were. Three and ten, perhaps?”

“You saw me?” Sandor leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees.

“I did.”

Sandor shifted, both curious and afraid to hear more.

She sighed airily, “I heard what men said about you… that you might grow to be as large and fierce as your elder brother. But where Ser Gregor was an untamable beast, you were an obedient dog.”

“You… you requested me specifically, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Why?” Sandor growled.

“I saw something in you then, and I see it now. When you live as long as I have, you see things in people. I saw a destiny that was stolen from you. You should have been a knight worthy of legend and song. Brave, powerful, handsome. But your brother made you cynical of the world. He made you bitter. He disfigured you. He drove you to soothe your pain through drinking. He made you think you were unworthy of love, of respect… Later, when I heard of the Lannister Hound, it was always spoken with fear but also derision. Like you were a mindless beast. But I know that hounds are loyal, they are fearless, they are intelligent, they are observant, and they are honest.”

Sandor snorted, “A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.”

Sansa smiled, “I like that. It is true. I want you by my side, Sandor Clegane. You need never lie to me, and hopefully you’ll never die for me.”

“Why me? Are there no more Cassels? Does Edrick not have a great-great-great-nephew? Could Robbett or Martyn not fulfill the role?”

Sansa chuckled, “Robbett and Martyn _are_ his great-great-great-nephews. But I do not force any man into servitude. And the truth is… I will not force you into it, either. I chose my destiny, nearly a millennia ago. My father would never have made me drink that blood. Jory, Rodney, Edrick… they all _chose_ to be by my side.”

Sandor weighed her words. Oddly, now that she was giving him a choice, the answer seemed an easy one. But he wasn’t ready to give it. Instead he hummed, “So you and Edrick protected Jaime Lannister?”

“It wasn’t that simple. When we’d arrived, the Mad King was ordering his pyromancers to burn the entire city. Edrick helped Jaime dispatch the pyromancers before they could execute their king’s command. I couldn’t help, you see – it was daytime, and the throne room was flooded with light. I had to stay in the shadows. I watched Ser Jaime tell the Mad King it was over – that the rebels had taken the city, and his pyromancers were dead – Edrick was seeing to the last of them as he spoke. Ser Jaime laid down his sword – his way of resigning from the Kingsguard, you could say. He turned to leave but the distraught king drew his own blade and charged toward Jaime’s back. I got there first, killed the Mad King with a sword through his back, but the light was burning me. Ser Jaime carried me to the shadows and protected me when minutes later Robert Baratheon’s men stormed the throne room. Jaime did not know what I was, but clearly he saw I was… _different._ But he was a quick liar; he said I was a servant burned by the Mad King. He covered me with his Kingsguard cloak but instead of bringing me to a maester he brought me to Edrick. You see, burns don’t heal as quickly as cuts for me. When Lord Lannister saw what I’d endured to save his son, he laid his sword at my feet and swore allegiance to me. He said he owed me a debt.”

Sandor shook his head, “You should have asked for more than me, girl.”

“My wolf means more to me than all the gold beneath Casterly Rock. He is not just my daytime protector, he is my companion, my friend.”

Sandor grunted, “Don’t know how to be a friend.”

She smiled sagely, “It’s easier than you think.”

Sandor cleared his throat, “So no one else saw? No one else knows?”

Sansa sighed, “Lord Bolton and I have… an understanding. Hunting, as we did last night, is not always practical. Nor is it wise to do it very often. A dead drunk every few months? No one thinks anything of it. A dead drunk every sennight? It would raise suspicion. Put people on alert.”

“So how does Bolton help?”

“He is Warden of the North. He holds trials – thieves, rapers, murderers. The convicted he sends to the Wall, but some he sends to me. _Covertly_. It’s something of an arrangement we’ve had for many human generations, since I helped the Boltons with a… _problem._ I also have a few trusted wisewomen in the area. They let me know if a woman or child is brought to them with suspicious injuries. That is how I met Shaleen. You see—”

“I heard. You killed her husband and took her in.”

Sansa nodded, “And in a pinch, I go out and hunt with Edrick. I take the blood, he takes the flesh. Animal blood isn’t as nutritive as human blood… think of it like weak southern ale versus dark northern ale.”

“That’s a comparison I can relate to,” Sandor chuckled, “But I’m curious… you’re a Stark, yet Boltons have held Winterfell for generations. Why?”

“I tried ruling Winterfell for a time, after the Last Night. Many men wanted my hand so they might be King in the North. I refused them all, for many reasons I’m sure you can imagine. But, you see, men don’t like an unwed queen. The Kartsarks, Flints, Boltons, Tallharts, and Glovers banded together and meant to sack the castle. Jory and I couldn’t use our powers to defend it without revealing the secret to everyone. Moreover, I didn’t want to see my people die. I knew even if we thwarted the usurpers, they would keep coming. And truthfully, how long could I have reigned, anyway? How long before people started wondering why their queen never looked a day over eight and ten? They wouldn’t understand, and people are _unkind_ to that which they don’t understand. So I surrendered Winterfell to them. They elected the then-Lord Bolton as their King. In exchange I asked that my brother and I, along with a few of our trusted men – including Jory and Maester Luwin – be allowed to live undisturbed. The Glovers built this castle for us, gifted us this land that was once an unclaimed part of the Wolfswood, but unofficially was under the protection of Deepwood Motte.”

Sandor nodded, “I suppose you have your reasons for not wanting your secret widely known, but it seems to me that if people knew how powerful you are, they would have left you alone.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Really? Everyone from Dorne to Last Hearth would try to take my power, my immortality.”

“Take it how?”

“It is a gift that can be given, just like Edrick’s.”

“Then why not give it to those you trust? Create an army of _immortals…_ rule the realm.”

“I’ve tried. When I give the gift, its strength is divided. I gave it to Maester Luwin; the magic was divided two ways. I wasn’t as quick to heal. I needed to drink so much more to retain my strength. So I took it back… at Maester Luwin’s insistence. Later, when Bran was on his deathbed, I gave him the gift. It was the same result, and once again I took it back. It is the same with Edrick’s gift. Jory gave the gift to Rodney when he felt he was getting weak. But it only made Jory weaker. He let Rodney take the rest of it.” Sansa looked away suddenly, and Sandor knew without seeing that she was crying.

“You loved him,” he stated.

She nodded, and Sandor was smart enough to say no more on the subject. He took a deep breath, “If you are immortal, why aren’t your wolves?”

Sansa shrugged, “I’ve been trying to figure that out for centuries. Since Jory started fading. Perhaps the changing back and forth from man to wolf strains the body. Or perhaps it’s just the way it is. Why does a man live longer than a dog? Why does a dog live longer than a mouse? Perhaps I’m not immortal; perhaps my lifespan is simply so long that it _seems_ immortal. My wolves each lived for centuries; perhaps I will live for millennia. Perhaps I’ll begin to weaken someday, and I’ll give my gift to a new vessel. Or perhaps I’ll let it die with me.”

“Why? Your power once saved the entire realm. Then it saved an entire city from a Mad King. Who knows what it will save in the future?”

She smiled sadly, “Because I may call it a gift, but it’s really a curse. I would give this curse to no pure-hearted soul, and I cannot risk giving it to someone dark-hearted. I will continue to use this power – this life – to do good. But when the day comes that someone kills me, or I simply wither away, I’ll die with a smile on my face.”

Sansa stoked the flames for at least the fifth time that night and they lapsed into a mutually contemplative silence. Sandor wondered what she thought about. Perhaps all the people she’d known and loved only to later watch die. Perhaps she fantasized about her own death. Perhaps she thought of the night she drank the blood from the vial; perhaps she wished she never had.

The sky began to lighten, and Sandor moved to close the curtains, but she stopped him. The sun began to rise, and Sandor watched light consume the shadow on the ground around the castle. The light crept like ivy, though the balcony was still shaded for a time. When the light finally hit the stone floor of the balcony Sansa turned to face him, “I’ve told you why I need a daytime guardian. Now I will show you.” She slowly stretched her arm out until just her hand was in the sun. The skin reddened and Sansa whimpered. Seconds passed and the skin began to cook – blistering and smoking. Sansa screamed in agony and like a craven Sandor jumped back, as if the sunlight would burn him, too. Instantly realizing his foolishness, he pulled Sansa back into the room and cradled her hand, red and oozing, blisters bubbling like soup in a cauldron.

“Why, you daft little bird?! Did you think I didn’t believe you?!”

She chuckled despite her pain and raised the seared hand up to press to his scarred cheek. Sandor closed his eyes. No one had touched his cheek in… well, he couldn’t remember the last time. He supposed it was the maester who treated his burns when he was a child.

“Because I know the pain you have lived through, my shaen.” Her knuckles stroked his jaw, “And just as you will protect me, I will protect you. You would give your life for me as I would give my life for you. And as long as there is life in my body, I won’t let you burn.”

As gently as he could, Sandor cupped her injured hand and brought it to his lips, “I don’t ever want to see you burn again.” He gazed down at the skin, already looking less angry than it did a minute ago.

He could admit to being jealous of this power to heal, to rejuvenate. If only he’d had it when Gregor held him face-down in a brazier.

“What did you call me?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“You called me a daft bird?”

Sandor chuckled, “Aye. A daft little bird.”

“Why?” she smiled.

“Because the first night I met you, the way you walked so soundlessly, it reminded me of a little bird hopping across fresh snow. And every night since then you’ve chirped at me nonstop. And I suppose because of your hair… this pretty red thing surrounded by grey and white. Like a cardinal on a snow-covered branch. What did you call me? Your shin?”

Sansa laughed, “My shaen. It’s old tongue for _hound_.”

“Mm… and what did you call Edrick the other night?”

“My _ulv_ … old tongue for wolf.”

“Right… so you’re going from a wolf to a hound. Perhaps you are daft.”

She smiled at him, “You are _both_. The wildness of a wolf and the loyalty of a hound. I knew it the first time I saw you, when you were just a boy, putting the older lads to shame in the practice yard.”

Sandor couldn’t resist the grin, “Then call me an ulv-shaen.”

“I prefer something more concise. It’s not like I have an eternity, you know.”

Sandor laughed and shook his dead, “A funny little bird, you are… so what’s the word for ‘bird’ in your old tongue?”

Sansa blushed, “It’s spelled differently, but it sounds like ‘fool’.”

Sandor barked a laugh, “Perfect! My little _fool_. Can’t think of a better way to address a queen.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “It’s time for me to retire, and you should do the same. Shall we talk again tonight?”

“If you keep me up all night talking, don’t know effective I’ll be as a daytime guardian.”

“I promise not to make a habit of it.”

Strangely, he wanted it to be a habit.

“Fine. Until tonight, little… _bird.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ulv means "Wolf" in Norwegian, according to Google. Shaen I adapted from the French word for hound, which is "chien"
> 
> And I forget what language it is, but indeed there is a language in which the word for "bird" sounds like "fool". Which makes sense I guess (Fowl/fool/bird)??


End file.
